Tinteán

by Michael Boyle

Michael Boyle reading from the opening of his memoir On New Turf at Ally O’Brien’s, Newfoundland

Michael has been a regular contributor of poetry and non fiction to Tinteán since 2017 and is now on a world tour following the launch of his memoir On New Turf. He has sent us the opening, below. (See also our review of his book in June’s ‘What we are reading at the moment.’)

Leaving Drummuck Moss

We lived on a small hill on the edge of the turf banks in Drummuck, County Derry. During the wintertime, we gathered around a warm blazing fire, fueled by the turf we had cut in the nearby moss with our own hands.

As a callow youth at the age of twenty-two I left the moss lands of Lavey to seek my fortune by teaching in Fogo Island, Newfoundland. The night before I left home, the house was silent. My mother had gone to bed, but she could always hear anything that moved a mile away. Memories flooded back to me. As a young child in our old, thatched house, I was always the first up in the morning with my father, stoking the ashes of the turf fire or making up a new one in the open hearth.

During the night, my brother Brian’s dog never stopped yapping. Early next morning my mother called out and she always used the Irish language pronunciation of my name.

‘Meehawl, your fry is on the table, and you’ll need it. You have a long day ahead of you.’

As I enjoyed my buttered toast with gooseberry jam, I looked out through the parted curtains in the front window. I could see the thick early morning mist disappear from Drummuck moss.

When I was a barely three. I escaped onto our front street by jimmying open the half door. I celebrated by dancing on a sheet of zinc, which covered a recently dug well. I fell into the well but my eight-year-old brother Sean raised the alarm. As it happened my father Paddy Joe and Uncle John were  close by footing turf in the upper moss bank. They sprinted up the stony bog road in their hob nailed boots to rescue me.

So, now I needed, one last time, to embrace these moss lands that had saved my life.

I went up the yard past the pig cros and the dochal to the  stable on the right of the byre. I edged open the big red and white stable door and looked around for Nora, the last working horse we had on the farm. I patted and stroked her rough dark brown and white forehead one last time. She gave a low neigh and scratched the stable floor with her front right hoof as if to say goodbye.

I picked up a loose clod of brown foggy turf which had lain beside a hay bale. I took it up, this small dusty clod, with both my hands. I brought it close to my face, smelling the rich, peaty aroma that meant so much to me. My hands felt the grainy texture. Home is where your heart wants to be, and this turf was a piece of my home.

I had so many memories as the son of a turf cutter that, more than ever, I needed to take a piece with me. I held it high in the morning light. It was strong, and compact and would not crumble easily. This was much more than a piece of turf. It was a piece of home and it would always go where I would go.

This turf would sustain me in all my life’s adventures. I wanted to pack it carefully in my suitcase. I looked around the barn and found an old copy of ‘The Derry Journal’. I reverently wrapped my hallowed piece of home using the complete newspaper.

When I got back into our house, I covered my precious treasure with a white knitted Aran sweater my mother had bought. I knew that I needed both close to my heart, to remind me of home. In our small kitchen, we all knelt on our own chairs as my father intoned a prayer for a safe journey:

 ‘Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession was left unaided by Thee.’

Having made his plea to the Virgin Mary, my father stood in the center of the kitchen.

‘Now, son, I have only one thing to say to you. If you don’t like it in that New Land, then be sure and come home as soon as you can.’

My mother was heartbroken. She went into the front room and took a large Lucozade bottle of Lourdes holy water from the sideboard. She sprinkled everyone in the kitchen and then turning around to me, she poured what was left of the holy water over my head with a blessing.

‘May God and Mary keep you safe from all harm in that New-Found-Land.’